


The Accidental Caper, Or A Sprinkle of AmeriHawk

by LizzieHarker



Series: A Comedy of Arrows [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: A Comedy of Arrows, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, POV Clint Barton, ShieldHawk if you squint, Steve's first love is actually fighting, Swearing, maybe it's AmeriHawk?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, is the world's greatest sharp-shooter.He's also a tall, blond, deaf coffee addict and mostly a disaster.When a new ice cream opens up boasting coffee ice cream, espresso-chocolate sprinkles, coffee syrup, and--you know--coffee, Barton is there in a Brooklyn nanosecond.And who better to join him than Steve Rogers, formerly Captain America (retired)?This is what happens when two assholes enjoy an afternoon of bonding, friendship, and a boatload of sugar. More or less...





	The Accidental Caper, Or A Sprinkle of AmeriHawk

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Homobophic language

“Hey there, kitten! Who’s ready for an adventure?” Clint announced as he threw open Bucky’s front door, beaming ear to ear as he leapt across the threshold, wherein Clint found a deeply confused, mildly shocked, and wide-eyed Steve staring at him from the couch. Piles of laundry littered the coffee table and floor around him, and a mountain of socks littered his lap. 

Steve blinked before finally opening his mouth. “Oh, hey Clint.”

“Hey, Steve,” Clint said, slowing his roll as he shut the front door. Turning back to Steve, he knit his brow, tilting his head to study the scene. Something didn’t sit right with him. Was he? He _was_. 

Steve Rogers, Captain America, Paragon of Truth and Justice, King of Freedom . . . sat on his plush leather couch, darning socks.

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait. You . . . call Bucky, ‘kitten?’”

Clint chuckled. The bewilderment on Steve’s face was priceless. “Only in bed.”

Steve’s mouth quirked into a grin. Joking was good. This was good. Things were beginning to feel normal again. “Bucky’s been out all day and won’t be back until tonight. He’s working on a yoga thing. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Clint said, shoulders drooping. Bummer. “There’s this new ice cream place I wanna try out. They have 101 toppings _and_ a sprinkle bar _and_ five different sauces including a coffee-flavored-something. Plus coffee. There’s coffee.” 

Chuckling, Steve gave Clint a sympathetic smile and went back to fixing his socks. “Sounds like your kinda place. I’ll have Buck text you when he gets home tonight.”

“Or you could put down the socks, Mother Rogers, and come with me now.” 

Steve looked at his needle, then back at Clint. “Really?”

He grinned, leaning against the door. “Uh, yeah. Coffee ice cream ain’t gonna cover itself in espresso-coated sprinkles.”

For a moment, Steve’s brow furrowed, and Clint thought he’d decline, claiming some predetermined duty to the sock gods, but instead Steve nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Lemme go change.” He pushed the laundry off his lap and onto the couch cushions, revealing what Clint could only assume were a pair of Bucky’s lounge pants. He giggled to himself; it was probably the only things Bucky owned that Ca—Steve could fit into, even if the bottom cuffs hovered around his ankles. Those were probably some real comfy pants.

A couple minutes later, a snort came from the bedroom, followed by a bewildered Steve staring at his phone. He’d traded Bucky’s sweats for dark-wash jeans and grey teeshirt, his bare feet now in black and white Converse. Even with his head bowed, Clint spotted the aviators hooked in his collar, and there was no missing the futzing baseball cap on his head.

“Did you text him?” Steve asked.

It took Clint a minute to realize Steve had looked up—at Clint—instead of his phone screen. “Uh, no?” 

Uh, yes. Duh. _Hey kitten, taking your boyfriend out for an ice cream date. Wish you were here. Xoxo_ , to be exact.

“How the fuck?” Steve crossed the room and held up his phone for Clint to see. Bucky’s name (with a heart on either side) headlined the text. _Take off the fucking ball cap and leave the aviators. You have a beard now ffs. If you want a disguise, wear the hot librarian glasses. XO_

Clint blinked. And then he burst into laughter.

Steve texted Bucky back, threw the hat onto the table, ran his free hand through his hair, then plucked the aviators off his shirt and canned them. “Bucky really hates the hat and glasses.”

“We _all_ hate the hat and glasses,” Clint howled. He’d bust a rib at this rate. “You’re terrible at disguises.” With effort, Clint calmed himself down, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Barnes is right, you don’t need it with that glorious beard, but I’m not gonna argue if you wanna toss on the hot librarian glasses.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve stalked back to his bedroom and came back with pair of half-frame black Ray-Bans. Clint’s eyebrows shut up. Bucky must love Steve casually walking around looking like that. In fact, Steve paused and _took a selfie_ , raising an eyebrow and his middle finger in the shot. Wasn’t today just full of wonderful surprises? Steve must have gotten Bucky’s approval because he shoved his phone into his pocket and ran his hand through his hair again.

Clint slugged Steve in the shoulder. “Let’s get a move on.” Excitement hummed through him, and Clint practically bounced on his toes as they stepped into the hall. He really hadn’t hung out one-on-one with Steve since he’d run into him at the coffee shop. Coffee ice cream and his newest bff? Best day ever.

He waited while Steve locked the door, a smirk twisting his mouth. “Real talk? No one darns socks anymore, buddy. Just buy some new ones.”

“I don’t need new ones. I can fix what I have,” Steve answered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You’re loaded, bro. Run up to Target and pick up a new pack for five bucks. You’re worth it. Hell,” Clint added, “most of the time I don’t even _bother_ with laundry. I just get a new pair. I shell out more for single pairs of socks than’s right, you know? Purple ones never come in packs. Futzing rude, s’what it is.” 

Steve laughed. Clint sighed. It wasn’t his fault he’d been born with exquisite taste. They stepped onto the street, Steve motioning for Clint to lead the way. “I’d guess it’s about as hard as getting Bucky to wear anything that isn’t black. I haven’t seen that man in color since 1940.”

“Must have been weird when the world switch from black and white back in the ‘30s. He ditched the eyeliner this century, though,” Clint offered.

“I liked the eyeliner.”

Clint chuckled. He’d thought it’d be weird trying to find his footing with Steve, but they seemed to be falling back into rhythm. Clint glanced over, taking him in. Steve’s shoulders were down, his stride easy. He looked happy. Good. He deserved it. “So, how’s the art going?”

Steve lit right up. “Great. I’ve been experimenting with different media and I’m really loving these pens I picked up at the art supply last week. The bold lines work well offsetting some of those soft watercolor pencils. I used to do a lot of charcoal sketches, but the dust gets everywhere, and to be honest, I don’t like the way they feel in my hands. Maybe it’s because it keep snapping them,” he added. “I mean I know they make holders and stuff, but that seems silly. I’ve been thinking about taking a couple art classes. Work on my technique, you know? Kinda rediscover what I like to do.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a pretty good handle on it,” Clint answered. He didn’t know anything about art other than Steve loved it. Natasha had dragged him to a gallery once to see a bunch of paintings and sculptures of ballerinas by some dead guy. Most people would think Natasha looked indifferent, but Clint caught the way her eyes shone. She loved it. There were things he enjoyed looking at, too, but the technique and history were lost on him. “What do you like drawing?”

The other man laughed. “Portraits and abstracts. The two most opposite things in the art world. I love drawing people when they’re not expecting a portrait to be done. Slice of life, candid moments. I find them the most interesting, how people unconsciously reveal pieces of themselves while doing ordinary things.”

“I bet you learn a lot.”

Steve nodded. “After I started therapy, I went through my old sketchbooks, looking through every portrait of Bucky I’d drawn, and something clicked into place. He used to insist that he was a ghost, that he wasn’t the same guy I’d known, but I was so wrapped up in just having him back I wasn’t really listening. I had to see it. And I did. And he was right. Neither of us are the same, but that doesn’t mean we don’t work together.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. That's probably really boring and we’re supposed to be getting ice cream.”

Clint slung his arms around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him for a brief side-hug. “It’s not boring. I want to hear your thoughts on abstract art. We got a couple blocks to go, Picasso.” If Steve wanted to talk for an hour about art, Clint would gladly listen. Maybe he didn’t know anything about the subject himself, but Steve’s passion burned, filling every word.

Art made Steve come alive in a way Clint hadn’t seen before, and Steve happily discussed the finer points of several topics Clint didn’t fully understand, but goddamn he wanted happy Steve all the time. He’d only cracked the surface before everything went to shit, but now they were _bonding_ and getting ice cream and did he mention best day ever?

The little ice cream shop appeared as they rounded the corner. Clint breathed in deep as the door to the place opened and spit out a couple of customers; he could smell the coffee ice cream and he locked his gaze on the sprinkle bar. Oh, futz yeah. Of course, this was still New York and the line was out the door and around the block, but he could wait. Clint had the patients of a golden retriever promised a treat—absolutely none. He groaned, leaning into Steve. “Use your powers of truth and justice and get us to the head of the line?” he whined.

“We can’t cut in front of kids, Clint. You’re gonna have to wait.”

“Fiiiiiiine.” Steve had a point but that didn't mean Clint wasn’t gonna pout.

Steve finally glanced over the building and back down the street. The line moved forward, much faster than expected. “Uh, Clint, this place has been open for months.” 

“Yeah, well, I was busy,” Clint answered. “And then I was at the beach.”

Steve flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—Sorry. So, what have you been up to since you got back?”

A smile spread across Clint’s face. “I’ve been up to my neck puppies for weeks,” he answered, back to bouncing on his toes in excitement. “I volunteer for a couple of animal shelters. You know, park events, pet shop guilt-trip days, community outreach. Did I mention the puppies? Oh man, Steve, the puppies.”

“Lucky must love that,” Steve teased.

Clint nodded. “Lucky comes with me some times. He’s great with kids and older people, and he loves getting loved on and petted and—people. Everyone loves that dog.”

“He’s a good boy. You should bring him around sometime.” The line moved forward again, the door in sight. Steve shuffled his feet. “Bucky and I have been dancing around the idea of getting a pet.”

“Really? I mean, of course I’ll bring Lucky over, but you guys want a pet?”

“We’re thinking about it. It wasn’t reasonable before, but one of us is usually at home and I think it might do us some good.”

“Lemme know when you wanna go looking. I have connections,” Clint said, winking.

Shaking his head, Steve chuckled and held the door open for Clint, and Clint’s gaze went straight to the coffee bar. The girl at the door attempted to hand him a menu, but Clint waved her off. Steve took one, thanking her, and looked it over. “Oh, this is . . . different.”

Clint leaned sideways to glance at the menu. “Avocado ice cream? Ew. Why? No.” He wrinkled his nose. “What are you gonna get?”

Steve shrugged. “I like vanilla.”

Clint smacked his hand across his eyes. “Of course, you like vanilla. Steve, man, c’mon. Don’t be that guy.”

“What guy?” Steve asked, brow knit.

“The _vanilla_ guy,” Clint said, stretching out the word. Captain Apple Pie and Virtue couldn’t like vanilla ice cream. It was unacceptable. It was boring.

“I like vanilla. I can get whatever toppings I want and they don’t get all gross with weird flavors.”

Clint relented. “Okay, that makes sense, but be a little adventurous, will ya?”

“Okay,” Steve said, putting the menu in one of the holders. “You order for me.”

Laughing low, Clint stepped up to the counter while Steve waited by the toppings bar, studying the little signs and displays. There wasn’t an empty seat in the place, but that was okay. Hanging with Steve felt great. The real question was how much Steve would hate him based on ice cream roulette. The lady behind the counter gave him two scoops of his precious coffee ice cream and Clint decided on the unassuming “Fireworks” flavor for Steve. When he handed Steve the cup, Steve rolled his eyes.

“Vanilla? Really?”

Clint shrugged. “I figured Bucky would come at me if I gave you wasabi, so better safe than pummeled by your boyfriend.”

Steve smirked. “Joke’s on you; I love wasabi.”

Everything faded out as Clint reached for the spoon inside the espresso-coated sprinkles container. They were more beautiful than he’d imaged, the color of rich chocolate, and he could _smell_ the good espresso. For a second, he debated swiping the container. Would be kinda hard to smuggle it out _and_ enjoy his ice cream, though. Damn. Beside him, Steve shook out some chocolate sprinkles and actually plopped a cherry on the top. Steve Rogers: too wholesome for his own good.

“It’s a toppings bar, Steve. Get a little wild,” Clint said, dumping another spoonful of sprinkles in his cup. It was gonna runeth over and Clint didn’t mind one goddamn bit.

“Why they let people like that in public, man? Couple of pansy-ass fairies,” said some jackass behind him. 

Clint turned. A couple of kids sat at one of the tables, clearly on a date, fingers laced on the table top. They let go when the guy spoke, both shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Clint opened his mouth to take the fucker to task when Steve’s hand settled on his ass, the resulting smack loud enough to be heard, but not painful.

“You good, babe, or do you want an extra pump?” Steve said, winking at Clint. He tapped his fingers on the top of the coffee syrup dispenser.

Clint’s eyes widened, heat flushing his cheeks. What the hell? Then he caught the jerk behind them shift focus to them. He hesitated a moment before a flirtatious smirk filled his face and he nuzzled against Steve’s beard. “One now and another at home?”

Steve pinched his ass. “Don’t get greedy.” He flatted his palm, cupping the swell of Clint’s jeans, soothing. “Well, maybe.”

Okay, this was weird. He still hadn’t gotten over being dirty talked to death during that game of Never Have I Ever, but Clint had never been one to back down. Besides, those kids needed a way out, and if shamelessly flirting with Steve provided them escape . . .

It hadn’t worked. Jackass kept glaring at the kids. “Oh, ashamed now, huh? Get your asses outta here. No one wants—“

“Leave them alone,” Steve interjected, stepping between the guy and the kids.

“Or what? Free speech is my God-given right in this country.”

“Hate speech isn’t covered by the First Amendment. Shut the fuck up, get your ice cream, and get the fuck out.”

He snorted, shoving Steve’s shoulder. “You think you’re Captain America or some shit?”

A slow, nasty grin curled Steve’s lips. Clint felt adrenaline trip down his spine, anticipation humming in his blood. But Steve didn’t move; he kept smiling, a low laugh shaking his shoulders. “You wish.”

Steve dug a spoon into his ice cream as he turned back to Clint, making a show of licking it off. At least it gave Clint a perfect view of the moment the popping candy went off with the familiar crackle and fizz. He grinned. Steve’s shocked expression: also priceless.

Steve swallowed, trying to control his features. “I should have known it wouldn’t be vanilla,” he muttered, taking another spoonful. “Wanna taste?”

“Sure.” Clint leaned forward, nipping at Steve’s ear. To his surprise, Steve shivered. He knew Steve had to be a kinky guy with half the shit Bucky mouthed off about, but who fucking guessed Steve “Pure as Driven Snow” Rogers liked _teeth_? “I’ll have a bite of that ice cream, too.”

Steve wrapped his arms around Clint, and the guy behind them snapped. “Goddamn ass-lickers,” he swore, taking a swing. Steve neatly sidestepped, dragging Clint with him, and casually pushed his foot into the guy’s knee. It buckled and he fell face first into the sprinkle bar. A cascade of rainbow-colored sugar poured down with a pleasant hush as the guy sputtered and tried to get back up.

Steve’s expression flattened. “Actually, I prefer cocksucker.”

Clint stared. Did he just say ‘cocksucker?’ Yes, yes he did. “Who the futz are you?”

Setting his ice cream down, Steve turned to Clint. “Steve Rogers,” he answered. Sprinkle guy came up swinging and Steve ducked, getting the guy in an arm bar and shoving him away. He stumbled, but didn’t go down, grabbing a bottle of strawberry syrup and chucking it at Steve’s head. It grazed his temple, leaving a trail of sauce down his neck before hitting Clint. He fumbled for it, spilling his ice cream down his shirt in the process.

“Aw, ice cream, no,” he lamented, staring sadly at his overturned cup on the tile. All the coffee goodness splattered across the floor. He cupped a hand against his shirt, already cold and sticky. Distracted, he didn’t expect the scoop of mint chip that hit him in the face. Asshole guy had gained his feet and used his spoon like a catapult. “Oh, real futzing mature, bro.” Steve handed Clint a napkin and he wiped his face. 

The guy charged them. Steve struck him in the ribs and sent him back into the sprinkle display, only to take a right hook to the jaw. Clint stepped in, sweeping the guy’s legs. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” Steve said, and the bastard had the nerve to genuinely sounded excited. He blocked the next punch and shoved, Asshole taking out the hot fudge dispenser on his way down. “You done yet? I’m not sure how you’re gonna deal with a fairy kicking your ass, but I can do this all day, pal.”

Clint caught sight of one of the metal sprinkle containers on the ground: the espresso sprinkles, somehow miraculously upright and not ruined by bigoted homophobes. If he could get the sprinkles . . .

Asshole guy swung hard, backhanding Clint and throwing his other fist into Steve’s face. Clint spun, intercepting the punch, and broke the guy’s nose with his elbow. “What the hell? Back the futz off!” Clint snapped, staying between the guy and Steve. Just cause he wouldn’t let the supersoldier pummel the guy didn’t mean Clint wouldn’t. At least not in the middle of a very public ice cream shop. “They’re just kids enjoying themselves. They’re not bothering you. They not bothering anyone. All they want is to eat their ice cream like everyone futzing else and be left alone.”

He glared, daring the guy to get up. Steve placed his hand against Clint’s back. Too late, Clint caught sight of the guy grabbing the sprinkle container and whipping it across the room. Espresso-coated sprinkles rained down on Clint, the edge of the container catching his lip. Futz that guy. He was going down.

Before Clint could move, Steve was on the guy, hauling him to his feet. Somehow a bottle of chocolate syrup got involved and Clint wasn’t sure where the rest of the ice cream came from (he had landed in a puddle), but all three of them were a mess, although Asshole guy ended up a lot bloodier. Steve knocked the guy down again, letting him flounder in the wreckage before two employees came around the counter, both irate. Clint raked his hand through his hair before remembering it was covered in ice cream. Great. Clint hated having to be the adult. He pushed himself up, shifting his gaze between the employees and the Brooklyn Brawler. “Uh, Steve? Steve, we gotta—”

“Goddamn fags, I’m gonna make you fucking regret messing with me,” Asshole spat. To Clint’s amazement, he scrambled to his feet and charged at them, sprinkle-coated fury and all. Clint tugged Steve to the side, and together they watched the guy slide past them, arms pinwheeling as the river of chocolate syrup plus his own momentum sent him crashing through the front window and onto the street.

Steve stared, eyes wide. A cheer rose from the crowd, and when Clint turned, the kids were smiling at him. He grinned back, but winced. Ow, split lip.

Someone behind them cleared their throat. Oh futz. The manager stood at the edge of the wreckage, arms crossed.

Steve turned red. “Sorry, ma’am. I’ll gladly pay for the damages, but I couldn’t let this asshole pick on two innocent kids,” he began, but the woman motioned him quiet.

“I appreciate your stepping up. This place is for everyone, and we need to encourage acceptance and respect in this world. I’m sorry I didn’t intervene sooner. That being said, considering the damages and the overall mess, I’m afraid the two of you are banned from this establishment.”

Steve hung his head. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll write out a check for the repairs. We’re very sorry.”

“But my ice cream!” Clint said, trying to forage the undamaged sprinkles.

The manager handed them a roll of paper towels and pointed to the door. Clint sulked as they made their exit, pausing only to kick at the asshole who’d gotten them thrown out. “Motherfucker. I just wanted some coffee ice cream.”

He pouted all the way back to the apartment, sticky and uncomfortable and starting to itch. His lip throbbed in time with his blackening eye but beside him Steve, equally a mess, kept grinning. Every now and then, a smile twitch up Clint’s lips. Who knew Steve Rogers was such a shit? Well, Bucky, but the clean cut picture of Steve Rogers: Captain America was dead wrong and Clint loved it. Getting to know Steve again would be awesome.

And then he remembered that Steve got to taste his ice cream and Clint hadn’t, and he resumed full-pout. 

Bucky must have just gotten in himself because he stood by the door when Clint opened it, still in his yoga clothes and mildly sweaty, taking in the two of them with surprise.

“Here,” Clint said, pushing Steve toward Bucky. “Take him. I am done. Your boyfriend is a menace.”

Steve stumbled into Bucky’s arms, and Bucky smiled fondly. “I know. That’s why I love him so much. You have fun with Clint, baby?” Bucky’s smile deepened and he made no effort to hide his adoration before the expression turned wry. “Why are you covered in strawberry sauce? Barton, why do you have sex hair?”

Steve beamed. “It was great. We went for ice cream and Clint got me this kind with popping candy in it, but then this asshole started picking on these kids, and when I told him to leave them alone, he—get this—he shoved me and asked if I thought I was Captain America.” Steve laughed, delighted. “He started a fight and I didn’t even have to use a trashcan lid as a shield. Which is great. I don’t think they make tin trashcans anymore. You shoulda seen him, Buck. I tripped him into the sprinkle stand.”

“Ah,” Bucky teased, eyeing Clint. “I see you’ve officially met Steve.”

Clint glowered. “Yeah, and the A on his helmet stands for ‘asshole.’”

“That’s my baby. Feisty little spitfuck, ain’t he?”

“Oh, and the best part was when he called me an ass-licker, and I told him I preferred cocksucker,” Steve continued.

“I got questions,” Clint interrupted. “Like how does Captain American know, let alone _say_ ‘cocksucker,’ and how the futz did he survive when all this”—he waved a hand at Steve—“was a packed into a skinny, partially-deaf asthmatic with heart failure.”

Steve huffed. “It wasn’t heart failure, it was arrhythmia.”

At the same time, Bucky shrugged and said, “My take’s he’s just too stubborn to let something as mundane as dying stop him.”

Suddenly, Steve looked contrite. “I did get us banned from that ice cream shop though.”

“I still don’t understand why Barton has sex hair.”

“Because Asshole Sprinkle Guy ruined my ice cream,” Clint said, tossing up his hands.

“Hmm, we probably shouldn’t call him that,” Steve said.

Clint kept right on. “Suck my dick, Rogers. I didn’t even get to taste my ice cream, and now we’re banned, and—“

“I can get you some coffee ice cream—“

“The espresso sprinkles, Steven!” Clint clenched his fists. “You don’t understand. I can get coffee ice cream anywhere, but the sprinkles . . . The sprinkles. All I got was sex hair and high blood pressure but _the sprinkles_.”

Steve blinked. “Oh, well, I saw these on one of the displays, and I got one for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He plucked out a little shaker, Espresso written on the side in script. “I know how much you were looking forward to the ice cream, and I wanted to thank you for inviting me out.” He offered Clint the bottle.

Bucky glanced between them, then tossed back his head and laughed, slapping Steve’s shoulder. “If that ain’t some classic Steve Rogers shit right there. You swiped a thing of sprinkles?”

Steve shrugged. “I intended to pay for them and then I got a bottle of syrup thrown at my head. I’ll add the cost to the check I’m mailing for the damages.”

“I’m not gonna see this on the five o’clock news, am I?” Steve shook his head. “Good. Go climb in the shower.” Bucky patted Steve’s ass, popping up to lick at the strawberry sauce on Steve’s cheek. “Mmmm, delicious.”

Steve chuckled, leaning in to kiss his boyfriend before disappearing into their bedroom. A second later he returned and threw his arms around Clint in all his sticky glory. Ew. Also, awesome.

“Thanks, Clint,” Steve said. “That was fun. We should hang out again soon.”

Clint squeezed back. “Fuck yeah, Rogers! Whatcha doing tomorrow?”

“Oh no,” Bucky said, shaking his head.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Steve asked, letting go of Clint to reach for Bucky.

“You two assholes are best friends now, which means you’re gonna get into stupid shit. Together.”

Clint beamed. “You’re sorry. I’m welcome,” he said, giving Bucky a wink before slipping out the door. Buck was right; Steve was an asshole, and Clint had had the time of his life running around with him. He laughed, cradling his stolen sprinkles, and promised himself he wouldn’t eat them all on one cup of ice cream. 

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> THAT'S RIGHT! THE CAPERS ARE BACK!
> 
> I have MISSED Comedy of Arrows so much, you guys. I've been waiting to post this forever. <3 I hope you loved it as much as I do.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Follow me [on Tumblr!](http://lizzieharker.tumblr.com/)


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